Meaning the World
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Well, yes, Mrs Turner next door's got married ones. Mrs Hudson doesn't really know about her tenants, but finds out that she doesn't even need to. Because one evening, after another case, she realises something important about John and Sherlock. One-shot. Fluff, most likely.


Fluff, again, I suppose.

* * *

_Meaning the World_

xxx

It's the sound of loud voices startling Mrs Hudson from her nap.

Thankfully. She has managed to fall asleep in front of the telly, again, her worry keeping her from going to bed and rest properly. Really, she should stop doing this. Never does her hip any good.

She almost flinches at the shouting to be heard outside. Her boys, home. Finally.

Mrs Hudson exhales quietly and presses her left hand to her chest. Home, yes. Thankfully.

"What the hell did you mean as you said 'I don't need John, John will stay?'"

Oh, John's voice. Angry. Mrs Hudson feels herself frowning upon the thought of her kind army doctor angry. Of course she wonders what Sherlock might have done now to upset him.

"Exactly what I said," comes the cool reply, a lot less angry and a lot more detached.

"What you…" Mrs Hudson can imagine the exasperated look on John's face, staring at Sherlock, not trusting his own ears.

Oh, her boys. What have they been up to, where have they been - and why are they shouting in the middle of the night in her hallway?

"What you said! How do you even-"

"Yes, John. Exactly what I said. Didn't you listen?"

Slowly, Mrs Hudson pushes herself up from her sofa, painfully being reminded of her sore hip. Oh no, she really shouldn't continue to kip on the sofa.

The next words are so quiet that it is difficult for her to understand. But thankfully, her hearing has always been better than anyone gives her credit for - at her age!

"Would've spared me a lot of trouble tonight," Sherlock mumbles.

Mrs Hudson almost becomes angry in John's stead. Whatever they are talking about, she is sure that they should rather talk, normally, and not turn it into another domestics. Her boys.

"Trouble?" John yells, furiously. Mrs Hudson almost flinches again. Oh dear, what are they up to? "Trouble?" John repeats. "You almost managed to get yourself killed by jumping right into harm's ways! If that dude had been a better shot, we wouldn't be talking here right now, but you would be dead on a slab! And you dare to call my staying _trouble_?"

Mrs Hudson's hand moves to her chest automatically, pressing down, trying to keep her silly heart from beating so fast. She has always known that what her boys are doing is dangerous, and that… Killed, John has said, killed. Even the sheer mentioning of the word makes her tremble. Killed.

"Yes, trouble," Sherlock replies, raising his voice slightly. "I wouldn't have been in this situation if it hadn't been for my obstinate flatmate standing right in the firing line, oblivious as always to everything happening around him. As I said- trouble!"

In this moment, Mrs Hudson is sure that her heart will simply give up. In the firing line? Both of her boys? Certainly working with this Detective Inspector again, the one from Scotland Yard, the one she has always found rather nice. Silently, she shakes her head, her fingers toying nervously with her necklace. He should take better care of her boys. Or she'll have to have a word with him.

"Oh yes," John splutters, "because you always see everything! Everything, Mr I-didn't-know-I-observed! I was under the impression that you didn't see the other guy sneaking up on you, the knife already in his hands. Well, but then, you would have done fine without my warning you and disarming him, wouldn't you? Because you're so bloody brilliant!"

The hallway is silent for a few moments.

"At least you wouldn't be bleeding all over Mrs Hudson's carpet now," Sherlock remarks then, sounding considerably more calm. Calm and failing to suppress his worry, she realises and wonders at the same time if John notices, too, if he sees past Sherlock's cool mask. Worried about John, of course.

And what has he said…? Bleeding over her carpet? Oh, the stains… Bleeding? Who is bleeding?

Mrs Hudson is about to jump from her sofa, damn her hip, and storm into the hallway, to see what her boys are talking about.

The sound of John's voice reassures her a tiny bit - she slowly shuffles from her sofa instead of jumping. "Barely a scratch. Has stopped bleeding in the cab. Your ribs, on the other hand… It's a miracle he didn't do more damage with this… what was it? Some kind of bat? You should maybe go to hospital…"

"I'll go if you go," Sherlock cuts him off. Mrs Hudson distractedly notices how her hands tremble as she is slowly approaching her door. Hospital? Oh, her boys. She would have to look after them.

"Sherlock…" John's voice again, gentle, this time. So they have finished their quarrelling. Mrs Hudson stops and steadies herself against her cupcoard. Dear, since when has she become so shaky? Silently, she huffs. What her boys are doing to her…

"The next time you do something so stupid, I'll drag you to hospital myself and then lock you in the flat, handcuffed, if necessary. I swear, if you ever…"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock interrupts rudely, making Mrs Hudson wanting to chide him. She doesn't, simply stays where she's standing.

"No, I won't!" John exclaims loudly, his voice becoming again that of Captain John Watson. Oh yes, he has been a soldier, her boy, Mrs Hudson can't stop but has to remember rather proudly. And a doctor. Mrs Turner next door can't come up with a doctor as tenant.

"I won't! I won't because I swear, if I let you jump in front of me one more time, one more time, if there's someone with a gun, I will… I don't know what I would do. With… without you… with you getting shot, I mean. Probably kill you."

Mrs Hudson's not an idiot. She may not be Sherlock Holmes, and she may not be the most brilliant woman who has ever lived, but she has led her life long enough to recognise what she's hearing, to recognise how hoarse John's voice suddenly has become, and how he has faltered.

"Well, uhm…"

And she certainly doesn't fail to notice that for once, Sherlock doesn't know what to say.

"Thank you," is what he finally settles on. Mrs Hudson huffs in desperation, hoping that John will be able to understand as much as she has understood. "As would I," Sherlock finally, finally, adds, and this time, John chuckles.

"Fine," he says and groans. "God, I'm tired. Come on, upstairs. Let's get ourselves sorted."

xxx

Mrs Hudson lets them be for a while, leaving them to everything they might have to do.

But after an hour, she can't contain herself any longer, she needs to look after her boys, she has to see if everything is fine. If they are alright. Or if she has to call an ambulance. One never knows with Sherlock.

Her hip aches as she slowly makes her way upstairs, but she doesn't care. The door to the flat is closed, but not locked, and Mrs Hudson attempts to open it as carefully and quietly as possible.

Unnecessarily quiet, as it turns out.

The flat is silent, except for John's soft snoring and Sherlock's even breathing. Asleep. Her boys are asleep.

John's head is resting on his right arm,having slumped over the table. A pack of gauze is lying there, a bandage tightly wrapped around his left forearm. Sherlock's doing, Mrs Hudson knows at once, since John is left-handed.

It does look a bit uncomfortable, Mrs Hudson can't help but has to think, but somehow, she doesn't want to wake John.

Silently, she approaches the sofa and fetches a blanket, carefully tucking it around John's shoulders.

Sherlock should have made him sleep in his bed, really. But then, Sherlock's position doesn't look all too much better. Sitting on the sofa - sitting for once, not lying -, his head slumped over his left shoulder, lolling forward.

For a moment she just stands there, watching him sleep. For a boy so clever, he can be remarkably slow sometimes, she muses. Because he can't simply tell John that he cares about him. Well, but then, John knows anyways.

Thank god there is another blanket, the one she has knitted for Christmas. Equally gently, she spreads it over Sherlock, accidentally touching his cheek in the movement. This time, she almost cringes twice - once at the sight of his face, slowly turning black and blue, and the second time at his mumbling. Mumbling John's name.

"Sssh," Mrs Hudson soothes him as she would calm an infant.

In the same instant, John stirs slightly, smashing his head against the table. "Sherl… you… alright…" is all Mrs Hudson can make out from his muffled muttering.

Silently watching her boys, she smiles. She still doesn't know if John actually ever needs his bedroom, if they really need two bedrooms, or if she's soon going to have married ones, just like Mrs Turner.

But in fact, it doesn't matter. Not to her - they are her boys, her John, her Sherlock, and nothing will ever change anything about that.

And not to them, either, because whereas everybody seems to be speculating whether they are a couple or whether they aren't… there is only one thing that's important, one thing Mrs Hudson is absolutely sure of (and of which her boys are aware of, too, hopefully): that John and Sherlock mean the world to each other. And nothing and nobody will ever be able to change that.

With a final glance at both of her boys, she tuts quietly and then heads downstairs again, finally ready to find some rest.

* * *

_Because I absolutely adore their friendship. And because I love bromance._

_If you find the time, please let me know what you think!_


End file.
